The Body Fortress Goliath to my standard hotsauce David.

Well, it’s finally happened.  My skinny, indie-band-guitarist-looking boyfriend has brought home a vitamin bottle full of powdered protein bigger than my head and announced his intention to Buff Up.  It’s been a while coming.  His best friend is a highlighted gym bunny, two of their good mates are professional football players with tree-trunk thighs, and another is elite Special Forces with a chest like the side of a barn and the alleged ability to maim with his big toe – not that any of this affects their collective smoking and drinking regime.  The rest of their boy gang are regular blokes with varying degrees of fitness, and Boyfriend has coasted comfortably as the Good-Looking and Sensitive One for years.  He’s got strong legs and more than held his own in the weekly five-a-side, but lost his niche a bit when he left everyone behind and relocated to London to move in with me.

I knew it would all change when we started partnering in hand-to-hand combat class and he discovered I could punch harder than him, as well as tote him across a gym in a fireman’s carry.  Actually, no, he likes these things about me, and since we found out I’m three pounds heavier, he will jokingly accuse me of throwing my weight around whenever I’m being bitchy.  Oh, the fun we have!  It just proves I could save him in a war zone or an emergency.  If I felt like it. (more…)


So, I’ve been in this long-term relationship – five-and-a-half years, to be exact – and things haven’t been going well recently.  To be honest, it’s been a rocky relationship from the start, and I can only ascribe its duration to my own complacency, oft-misplaced loyalty, and perhaps a mutual recognition of tenacity.  There have been good times, no doubt, but also a fair share of bad times, and throughout it all, a nagging sense of boredom and of things left undone and unsaid.

When Johnson and I got together, I was 22 years old and coming out of a nasty patch; I latched on to him with enthusiasm.  He was a foreigner in my hometown, we were both looking for some security, and the mutual benefits were immediate and obvious.  It didn’t take long for me to invest my heart and time, shrugging off the occasional errant suitor in the face of Johnson’s promises of longevity and fulfillment.  If I was good and devoted to him, he would be good to me, and together, we would go places.

It didn’t take long before I could see we were going to have problems.  He had a roving eye, as is his wont, and I was going to have to fight to remain in his affections.  Over the years, other pretty girls came and went, but I continued to declare my commitment and one by one, they dropped by the wayside.  I wanted to prove I was dutiful and in it for the long-haul, but sometimes the frustrations of all this struggle to stay visible and important overwhelmed me.  I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just sail on an even-keel; maybe we weren’t so well-matched after all, and I should be seeking attention elsewhere. (more…)

Note: I am not snarking on this man, but would like to say that the BF's back situation is not quite so dire.

I’m heading off on Tuesday morning for five nights in Malta and a much-needed vacation after a stressful first quarter (what else is new? – oh, I mean that stress-wise, not jetting to Malta-wise – the latter is new).  Our flight is at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am, and we are requested to appear at the airport two hours in advance.  To cut down on travel stress, we’ve booked an airport hotel room for tomorrow night, and I intend to head there after work for the luxury of rising at 4:00 am rather than 3:00 am, and the avoidance of taxi/tube/train panic.  Worth £44?  You betcha.

Besides my typical packing freakout (present and accounted for, sir!), I took the opportunity today to engage in pre-vacation grooming.  I opted out of a bikini wax this time in favor of an economically advisable DIY razor-job.  While I have been dreaming of a sunshine and beach holiday, I fear that even Malta will be too chilly this time of year for sunbathing, so I don’t see any point in suffering through a wax when I will likely be clad in jeans and a monochrome tee-shirt for the majority of my visit.

Nonetheless, I have plucked, bleached, and shaved in anticipation – at the very least I am hoping for a Turkish bath and a massage, and, sadly, one wishes to conform to Western beauty standards.  But while I am responsible for my own grooming, it seems I am also responsible for that of my male vacation companion.  I’m not complaining, per se – if one was able to competently shave one’s own back, one would be something of a medical marvel.  But aside from my responsibility for sunscreen, bathing suits, itinerary printouts, and toiletries (all things he has/will forget without my prompting), I am also tasked with boyfriend depilation. (more…)

So I have sort of been consumed for the last few weeks, shamefully, with the man I am dating. It was all LOVE LOVE LOVE at New Year’s, and then sort of plateau-ed and levelled out the past few weeks. And I have been confused by it, though never hurt or weeping or anything, because he’s been totally kind and for the most part attentive to me. But there have definitely been times where I have felt him suddenly pulling away, and I haven’t known what the hell is going on.

But anyway, for some reason we ended up having a big “state of the union” conversation this weekend, brought on by me, and basically it comes down to this: He is five years younger than me. He wants to have children. My womb is closed for business. He is in love with me, but pulls back because he fears just how painful the inevitable breakup is going to be.

So we got weepy and clung to one another and I gave him the old “Do you want to break up now? Because I totally understand if you do” line — actually not a line, but the truth — and he was horrified, insisting he doesn’t want to break up, but he is messed up about the depth of his feelings for me and how they probably will have to be doused at some point.

I said hey look, British motherfucker, let’s just take each day as it comes. Let’s not write it off entirely, let’s not heap all kinds of long-term expectations on it, let’s just enjoy each other and you can tell me you love me, for God’s sake, if that’s how you feel. If/when we break up, I am not going to hold it over your head and shriek: BUT YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME!!! As a tw0-time divorcee — SO PROUD!! — obviously I know that love does not mean permanency in many situations. Sad but true, and a lesson that is hard to learn at times.

So anyway, things are even more loving/sexy now than ever, because clearly we both realize our days are numbered, but today I get my little e-mailed horoscope and this is what it says: (more…)

My Boy Person had to go out of town for five nights last week.  Since he moved in, he’s been job-hunting, so has taken on the vast majority of the housework during the day and, ’50s-style, has dinner on the table for me when I get home from the office.  Were he not bored senseless, and did we not need the money, I’d say it’s a pretty sweet set-up.  I’ve been doing some light cooking on the weekends (mostly egg-boiling) and some laundry here and there so as not to get totally spoiled, but he’s definitely taken over the day-to-day chores and I’ve been able to work later in the evenings (yay).

Before he left, he joked that he couldn’t imagine how I survived without him.  “Ha ha,” I said, and thwacked him, “I managed just fine living on my own for the last ten years, so I expect I’ll manage.”  What rubbish, right?  As though I am thoroughly undomesticated!

Except I forgot that I kind of am.  I had big plans for the week.  I was going to take a bubble bath, paint my nails, bleach and depilate my various ladyparts.  I was going to call my family at home to catch up since the holidays, hit two different exercise classes, and had grand notions of reorganizing the closet.  I even planned out my menu for the week (I did have vague recollections of how much I hate cooking when I get home from work), and bought stuffed pasta and pre-seasoned pork escalope and a head of broccoli I could steam in minutes.  It was going to be so productive and relaxing!  (more…)

From Reuters:1_ugly_people

Britons are among the ugliest people in the world, according to a dating website that says it only allows “beautiful people” to join.Fewer than one in eight British men and just three in 20 women who have applied to have been accepted, an emailed statement from the website showed.

Existing members of the “elite dating site” rate how attractive potential members are over a 48 hour period, after applicants upload a recent photo and personal profile.

Swedish men have proved the most successful, with 65 percent being accepted, while Norwegian women are considered the most beautiful with 76 percent accepted, the website said.

The way that accepts new members is simple. A potential member applies with a photo and a brief profile. Over 48 hours, existing members of the opposite sex vote whether or not to admit them, the site said.

Options are: “Yes definitely,” “Hmm yes, O.K,” “Hmm no, not really” and “No definitely not.”

The site was founded in 2002 in Denmark and went live across the globe last month. Since then, the site has rejected nearly 1.8 million people from 190 countries, admitting just 360,000 new members.

“I would say Britain is stumbling because they don’t spend as much time polishing up their appearance and they are letting themselves down on physical fitness,” Beautiful People managing director Greg Hodge said. “Next to Brazilian and Scandinavian beauties, British people just aren’t as toned or glamorous.”

Only the male Russian and Polish applicants fared worse than British men, although Russian women had a 44 percent acceptance rate. Polish women did not appear in the table.

German applicants were slated for offering up unflattering photographs, which may have hindered their acceptance rates at 15 percent for men and 13 percent for women, the lowest rate in their category.

“German men and women aren’t faring well, but they are submitting stern images, they need to soften up,” Hodge said.


OMG.  I mean, sure, we all curse online dating for the douches that post 10 yr old pics or head shots only while they claim to be tall/fit/mobile, but damn!  A site that will just straight up reject you like the doorman at The Bank – how brutal(ly efficient).   But they’re not without a little compassion, scrolling to the bottom of the sign in page shows you how you can get past the rope and get a peek – “Too ugly to sign up?  Click here to browse BeautifulPeople as a guest“.  Thaaaaaaaaaaannnnks.

work_stressA few weeks ago, I did a post about my Boy Person’s impending move-in date, and how, while I was excited, I was also weighing in my mind the ways in which I view this new definition of commitment as a limitation of opportunity.  How very funny, in retrospect.  This week is my first week as a cohabitant, and the challenges thus far are a little different that the ones I was expecting.

I planned to do my second post on the division of housework and personal time – you know, the standard day-to-day things that keep us all ticking along, and seek input on how you divvy up your own allotments of chores and space as cohabitants.  While space is something the Boy and I are still working on, all of that has come secondary to The Most Important Thing in My Life:  My Job.

As seems to be the nature of my job, things lurch along without much of a problem until, all of a sudden!, we enter a solid week or two of panic mode, wherein I am at the office 11 hours a day, perpetually stressed and wiped out and completely incapable of carrying on functional relationships with the people in my Real-Life, to the point where I am too exhausted and irritable to even make a phone call when I drag my ass home.  I get so physically and emotionally tired that I am a fount of irritability.  I am crabby.  I am short-tempered.  I am brittle.  I am the worst version of myself and I have no time for anyone else.  I never meet friends during the week and I don’t even like to call my mom, because when I get home I just want to inhale the little bubble of solitude I have for three hours until I collapse into bed to have anxiety-dreams and wake up dehydrated and achey at 4:00 am.  It is melodramatic, completely self-centered, and I feel helpless to do anything about it.  (more…)

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